


dead men's fingers call them

by lechatnoir



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is death, wrapped in gold and the silver laced poison bullet that rips through the skulls and minds of everyone, and no one seems to notice death walking with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dead men's fingers call them

**Author's Note:**

> References to Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ , the Yusupov family conspiracy and the death of Rasputin, John Gardner's _Grendel_
> 
> My tumblr is chrysanthemumskies

i.

The clock strikes echo through the room, gentle monotone swish swish swish against the hum of violins and cellos that strummed about in the monochrome and red painted office walls.

(never flutes, they were far too loud, far too evasive to his ears)

He is alabaster and stone, soaked up in the rays of the pomegranate seeds that strum about in the hollow of his throat, one poison at a time.

He is calculated and swift, the devil and snake in the man’s suit, tailored and primed press , the fox in the lion’s fur, a calculated smile laced with cyanide and wine, with some gold.

( _they feed him cyanide laced cakes_ )

He watches and smiles as Will deteriorates , slowly, and surely. 

What was it now – 

_He would wait until there was a fire to put out , instead._

ii.

It is as if he slips into a second skin, dead and peeling flesh, almost as if it is the tale of mermaids swimming, silent siren songs as he makes the first cuts, a smile in his eyes and yet his face is one of stoic persuasion, something old and battered, yet familiar and safe.

( _Doctor Hannibal Lecter is the sanest man I know_ )

He smiles, silent chimes clawing at the bland walls, antiseptic, utterly cluttered desk and the bland monotone of black and greens and greys .

There is nothing worthwhile, neither is the man whose face is one of utter mistrust and disgust.

(He is nothing but a pompous idiot)

(Will is my friend)

(I have no intention of harming animals) 

He thinks the scissors sing their own song and he pauses, hears the breaths of someone curious.

He turns, face the devil’s own, and smiles as he moves silent as death, hands the child her little toy and moves away, a silent silver of a whisper on his lips.

 

(Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;

When down her weedy trophies and herself

Fell in the weeping brook. ) 

iii.

Will is a dichotomy of something fragile and strong, antler and sinew twisting and turning.

(He thinks of twisted tree trunks and axes bloodied with murders of a monster, a ravenous beast that seems to tear apart the walls of Herot and drag everyone down to the muddy embers of the cave )

He thinks about how he will be able to push him, twist and bend him into something of utter beauty, the skittish old stray with no hope for anything and anyone.

(He does not trust anyone, not even himself)

He is reminded of crooked clocks, weeping and disjointed, utter cacophonies of silent screams that seem to be banging and pounding inside his mind.

(He drowns it with a sip of the wine , dark and red and utterly bitter against his throat yet somehow, it is a greeting as if from a familiar friend) 

He thinks how long this little game will go on, the copycat killer and the dog that seems to run, chasing dreams that crash into the moon and get dragged down to the murky bottom of the sea, invisible to all but those whose eyes are filled with blood red tears and the taste of flesh against their skin.

He thinks and hums to himself, how his little pet experiment will be the undoing of them all.

(He has an itch that cannot go away, and soon the bodies pop up again, throats slit, sterile and dead green in the lighting of the morgue) 

iv.

He hates mess – thinks it is something unprofessional, something utterly terribly odd and wrong in the realm that God has created.

(He felt powerful) 

It is as easy as creating a dish, for there are multiple ingredients , each one unique and an complicated of brainwaves and constellations that make no sense at all but he can see the blood patterns, can see the connections in the hidden fabric of old walls, peeling wallpaper and the hidden heart that beats a steady rhythm.

(thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump)

It is a lullaby that he falls asleep to, the life squeezing out of a man’s throat, the gasping breaths of a young foolish girl, sticking her nose into things she should not have been looking into.

(He can only laugh as he watches them all scramble around, watching Jack slowly draw the lines, think that he’s protecting Will when all he’s doing is pushing him towards the edge like a bird to be pierced and torn apart by a pack of rabid dogs, teeth gnawing and gashing, and they are all utter fools) 

He thinks of a cat who has too much curiousity.

Thinks of the fool whose ear was dashed and torn apart by poison that was poured into it.

He watches the little ghost take the scissors , watches as she holds them shakily for she does not know – 

who or what he is.

There is only a terrible laugh that tear apart his lungs as he watches them tumble and fall through the cat’s cradle that he has built, with fire and poison and the utter sweet kisses of pomegranate and cyanide.

( _So they tossed him into the river where he was found dead in the morning, not from poison or from the beatings to the head and rib cage, but from hypothermia_ )


End file.
